Iconography
by Waterfowl
Summary: Lee Adama contemplates symbolism of words and heart while going through his wife's possessions.


**A/N: There's symbolism of objects, symbolism of words and there's symbolism of heart and spirit. An idea of how Lee Adama might've got to contemplate and assess all these while pouring over his late wife's possessions has been roaming in my mind for quite a while.**

**Set through the closing and, apparently, skipped, part of "Sometimes a Great Notion" (guess, I just need to get most of it out of my system), but alludes initially to the events of the missing year over New Caprica.**

Disclaimer 1: The tag-line is borrowed from BSG episode 3.02 "Precipice".

Disclaimer 2: The '_my heart is in your hands_' formula is borrowed from 'Black Book of Arda' by N. Vasyl'eyva, though is employed loosely out of context. I just happen to think it has a nice ring to it.

**Iconography**

_One of the first things they teach you at the Academy is that symbols matter... They are like pieces of your heart you can look at… _

- What does it say? – he squinted at the barely legible gaudy scroll on the inside of a well-worn soma braid he'd pulled from the box.

She turned her head and stepped aside from where she'd been plowing meticulously through the locker in the commander's quarters, stashing the effects she brought over from Galactica, realigning some of his personal stuff in the process. Anastasia Dualla(Adama) wouldn't tolerate any disorder on her watch.

- Oh, that… It's Old Sagittarese for "_My heart is in your hands_". Belonged to my great grandma. She got it from great grandpa back when they were courting. Long story…

The quizzical look and the trademark "confused" crease of his brows earns him a teasing, if enigmatic, smile. She is by his side now, tracing the path of faded letters on crude leather.

- It's our ancient commitment vow. You're supposed to say this not more than once in a lifetime.

He is suddenly worried. The idea that a relic superstition from an obliterated culture may have the power to somehow override their not yet three-days-old marital sacraments sends an unbidden insecure thrill down to his stomach.

- Did you… - The mocking glimmer in her eyes makes him blush and tugs the corners of his lips into a flustered smile.

Gods! The last thing newly-wed Commander Adama needs is to embarrass himself over jealousy, founded on some cheesy sentimental gibberish. – You ever said that?

What makes him nearly choke on nonchalance is her quiet solemn look that follows:

- No, I haven't. Not until three days ago. You were asleep and couldn't have heard…

He's too overwhelmed by the implication to quip his way out of the intensity of this, the enormity of her gift too overbearing for him to be conjuring a swift rationale on how exactly he'll hardly ever live up to deserve it.

_One of the first things they teach you at the Academy is that symbols matter... They are like pieces of your heart you can look at… _

Leland Joseph Adama is a wealthy heir. She was generous enough to endow him with a fortune's worth of her heart. It's cradled in his palm – a treasure beyond price: the ring he slipped on her finger alongside vows of love and devotion – appearances aside, he never came to completely abandoning those, he can but dare hope she knew; the set of dog-tags she put on with pride alongside vows of loyalty and devotion to them all, to him – appearances aside, she never came to completely abandoning those, he always knew. Her name, engraved in durable metal – to make the gift forever personified, to make her heart transcend the memory of his hope. Angles, and curves, and letters, marred faintly by tiny caked smears of her blood.

His fingers close around the miniature tokens – _her heart is in his hand_. He squeezes hard enough to let the edges dig into the skin of his palm, draw blood, perhaps. It won't make much difference on the surface, he's sure, for it's the splatter pattern of his own underfulfilled vows and carried out failures they have been tarnished with right away.

_One of the first things they teach you at the Academy is that symbols matter...__ They are like pieces of your heart you can look at… _

The metal is hot against his chest beneath the dress-shirt. Angles and curves searing the skin, specks of dried-out blood, like fires. He almost hopes they brand deep enough to leave letter-shaped marks over his heart, spelling the pain through her name.

_One of the first things they teach you at the Academy is that symbols matter...__ They are like pieces of your heart you can look at… _

The metal is eerily dim against the lid of her makeshift coffin. Angles and curves, immaculate and ghostly in the subdued lights of the airlock. His own name, engraved in durable metal – to make this ultimate gift forever personified, to make his heart transcend the memory of her despair. Generosity is not an issue with but a single worldly possession left. "_My heart is in your hands_" – he can but dare hope she heard.


End file.
